


Words Unspoken

by vgkahl



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Because I'm a hoe for basic fic formats, M/M, four plus one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:41:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgkahl/pseuds/vgkahl
Summary: Four times Mitch and Auston fight and one time it means more.Aka, where the definition of fight is interpreted liberally.





	Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> I've never posted a fic before, but I wrote this in the span of a few hours and decided fuck it.  
> Usual disclaimers that I don't claim to know or represent any people mentioned in this fic, if you know the people mentioned in this fic to please click away, this is a work of fiction, etc. etc.

**1.0**

The ice spraying into Mitch’s eyes interrupts his stare into the abyss, his chin resting on the top of his stick. The melting ice coats his eyelashes and drips down his cheeks, and he shifts his glare to where Auston laughs next to him. His helmet is nowhere to be seen, granting Mitch an unobstructed view of the dark circles under his eyes and the crinkles that form as he snickers at Mitch’s exaggerated irritation. 

“You’re literally 10, Matts. That stopped being funny in pewee.”

Auston is unbothered, lifting his shoulders at Mitch’s fake-anger. “You’re one to talk about mature humor. You watched How to Train Your Dragon twice on the flight yesterday.”

“Okay, I fell asleep, and it replayed. Not fair.”

“I’m aware. You drooled on my shoulder.”

Mitch drops his stick at this point and knocks his shoulder lightly against Auston’s. He dangles his gloves in mock-fury, inviting Auston to fight.

“You’re tiny. I’d feel better fighting someone my own size,” Auston teases, but drops his gloves. Mitch gets one small punch in before Auston races down the ice, dodging teammates as he darts to the opposite end. Mitch, despite his size being a limiting factor in his ability to effectively check or fight opponents, has never lost a race in his life against giants like Auston, weighed down by their excessive muscles. He reaches Matts easily, pinning him against the boards. They’re gentle in their shoving (Babcock would send them down to the Marlies if they did something as stupid as injure each other in an on-ice wrestling match), but they somehow still end up flat on the ground.

Auston’s laugh is loud in Mitch’s ear, and he turns to watch the tension in Matts’ body melt away. The pressure of Auston’s recent scoring drought is weighing on him, even if he refuses to open up about it to teammates, and it’s been a while since he looked truly calm. Mitch has to press his fingertips against the cool ice to ground them and remind himself not to reach out, to trace the gentle curve of Auston’s stubbled jaw, to wipe away the last few wrinkles of frustration in his forehead. 

“Are you getting up any time soon?”

Willy stands above them, a hand on his hip. His newly shaved face and freshly cut hair are still startling to Mitch, who swats at Willy’s foot. 

“You’re not taking me down with you. The last thing I need is an injury,” he scoffs. 

“We’re still in one piece,” Auston protested, though he begins to lift himself from the surface of the ice. “You’re just boring.” He offers a hand down to assist Mitch, and Mitch is careful not to let his hand linger against the calluses in Auston's hand he has long memorized. 

Willy taps them each with his stick once and begins to skate backwards toward the tunnel. The ice is essentially empty now, just an assistant coach and Naz remaining. 

“He’s gonna fall,” Auston mutters, breath warm against Mitch’s neck. It takes only one second before Willy stumbles against a rough patch and grabs at the boards to stay standing. Mitch doesn’t even have the opportunity to yell a chirp before a middle finger is raised in their direction.

Mitch and Auston skate toward the benches, where their gloves and sticks lay abandoned. They take their time, muscles starting to smart from the drills. Mitch is careful not to lean too far into the hand that Auston presses against his lower back, and he certainly doesn’t obsess at the glimmer of sweat Auston wipes from Mitch’s forehead before he disappears into the showers. Mitch is totally chill.

* * *

** 2.0 **

Mitch is not chill. 

The shitty EDM blasting around them is making Mitch’s already bad headache significantly worse, and the shots being shoved into his hands by various teammates are not helping the situation. The headache has nothing to do with the fact that Matts, who disappeared to grab them beers as soon as they arrived, has been pressed up against a brunette at the bar since he said, “be right back.” 

Mitch knows he stopped being subtle three shots in, the slight haze and the bitter taste of vodka gluing his eyes to his best friend. Auston is too caught up in his cloud of horniness to glance back. Auston is into girls and into casual, and Mitch has never begrudged him for it. His desire for a long-term relationship is not often shared among guys their age, partly inspired by his desire for a long-term relationship with a guy. He’s always been able to wave away his lack of flirtation with girls with the convenient excuse of wanting something serious, and over time, that excuse turned into an actual goal. 

“Jealous?” Kappy teases from above him, and Mitch physically recoils. Kappy’s face is gentle, joking, and his eyes are clearly looking at the girl Auston is pressing against him rather than Auston himself. 

“Sorry, too much to drink. I’m zoned out as fuck right now.” 

Mitch doesn’t need to make excuses. It would be far less suspicious to joke back, to pretend he’s longing for the girl Auston is disappearing into the crowd with, but he can’t find the energy. The saving grace of being surrounded by straight athletes at all times is that Mitch could be waving a pride flag and sucking twelve dicks in front of them, and they would still not get the memo. Kappy just settles into the booth next to Mitch after swiping away the nacho crumbs left behind by Zach. 

“This place is shit,” Kappy complains. The bar is underwhelming, but it’s also a hole-in-the-wall where people are significantly less likely to notice six or seven Toronto Maple Leafs drinking next to them. The wooden walls look two bar fights away from collapsing, and the floors are sticky from shots and a lack of concern for government health standards, but no one has asked Mitch for a picture, so small victories. 

“This is why we don’t let Matts pick the bars. He just finds a girl in two minutes, anyway.” Zach has returned to the table, clutching three beers between his hands that he distributes between them. 

“You’re all settled down. You choose to come to these shitty bars anyway,” Kappy says, now defending this shitshow venue. Mitch honestly can’t keep up with him, and he lets their bickering wash over him as his settles his head onto his arms and picks at the label on his beer. 

The bar thing is routine at this point, honestly. Auston picks a shitty place, coerces five or so guys to join him in the name of team bonding, then Mitch makes light conversation with his teammates until Auston suggests they share an Uber home. It’s not a bad way to spend a night, pining over his best friend over cheap alcohol rather than flipping through cartoons alone on his couch. 

“Marns, you decide.” 

Mitch lifts his head from the crook of his elbow to stare sleepily at Zach’s indignant expression. Kappy looks just as infuriated, passionately waving his arms toward Hymie.

“Huh?” Mitch hasn't taken in a single word of their argument.

“Tell him the best bar food is wings, not nachos.” Kappy’s arm movements are becoming a matter of public safety as a waitress holding a tray of shots dodges the danger zone. Zach returns the gesture, rolling his eyes as if he can’t believe Kappy’s ignorance. 

“Wings are messy. Nachos have so many topping options, can be easily shared, and don’t leave a pile of bones," Zach rebuts. He's less violent and less loud in his argumentation, but Mitch still pities passersby.  Kappy, meanwhile, balks at the suggestion that nachos aren’t messy, gesturing toward the crumbs left behind on the table but unable to form words to voice his frustration.

“You’re both wrong. The best bar food is cheese fries.” Auston has returned, sweat glistening on his forehead and his hair messy in the back. He slides in next to Hymie and pats Mitch’s elbow where it still sits on the table. “Sorry for leaving you alone with these children.” 

Mitch forms a weak smile and kicks at Auston’s ankle. “Can we go soon?” 

He’s normally very effective at dealing with social interaction, even when he wants to leave somewhere. Talking with people has never once been a problem in Mitch’s life, and it’s more often than not that people want to leave the conversation with him before he wants out himself. Today, though, he just can’t bring himself to care about nachos when Auston’s button down is too small against his biceps and shows a glimpse of stomach where Auston missed a button in the middle. 

“Yeah, I was actually just about to call an Uber. Let’s bounce,” Auston says. Kappy slides out of the booth to let Mitch exit into Auston’s waiting arm, which he tucks securely over Mitch’s shoulder. Consciously, Mitch knows it’s to steady Mitch’s stumbling, but he lets his mind wander to a world where Auston just wants to play with the strands of hair lining Mitch’s neck. 

 

In the Uber, Mitch allows himself to appear drunker than he actually is to explain the way he presses his shoulder against Auston’s side. Lolling his head onto Auston’s shoulder, he opens his his wide and solemnly declares, “Nachos are a significantly better bar food than cheese fries, by the way.” 

Auston doesn’t shove Mitch’s head off, just rests his hand on Mitch’s knee and taps it once. 

“I won’t fight you on that. I just didn’t want to give Kappy or Zach the satisfaction.”

Mitch breaths out a soft chuckle, watching the way Auston’s finger traces the denim around Mitch’s knee. They settle into a light debate about which teammates is the most insufferable drunk, and when Mitch stumbles into his bed with his teeth unbrushed and socks still on, he has to bite down on his palm to keep the squeeze in his heart from manifesting into a scream.

* * *

** 3.0 **

Mitch has been friends with Dylan Strome for some years now, but the Hawks are up 5-3 heading into the third, and if Dylan scores one more time, Mitch is refusing to attend the summer street hockey session.

Only desperation drives Babs to send Mitch and Auston on the same line. It’s usually a strategy used way too late in the game to be a difference maker, so when he orders them out with 18:57 remaining in the third, Mitch can’t even give himself a moment to process the gift he’s been granted before he’s battling for the puck in the neutral zone. 

Toews is opposing Mitch, his stick darting toward the puck, but before he can reach it, Mitch manages to curl it against his tape and artfully circle past him. The Hawks defense is waiting for Mitch, who stickhandles the puck until he’s about to be pinned to the boards before sending it down the ice toward Auston, who stands at the blue line. 

Auston pushes past the player guarding him to trap the puck against his stick and fight toward the net. Mitch can feel the pressure on his lungs, air struggling to escape in a timely fashion as he races to help Matts put the puck in the back. The puck is safely in Gards’ stick for the moment, but he's forced to shoot it toward the net as two Hawks barrel down on him.

The rebound bounces off Crawford’s pad directly to Mitch, who flicks it into the opposite corner without a moment's thought. His goal is confirmed by the sound of cheers filling the ACC. He starts to back up, looking for Matts for the celly, when a push shoves Mitch into the boards. Before he has time to properly react, the same fist pummels into Mitch’s side. 

Mitch isn't small, but he's is small for hockey, and the frustrated punches being wailed on his side as a referee tries to tug the red jersey away are from someone with a solid 40 pounds on Mitch. He weakly tosses a punch in return, finally finding time to shake off a glove, when a force crunches the Hawk into the boards. Mitch barely has time to register the 34 on the back of the blue jersey that throws the Hawk— Seabrook, Mitch can finally see— on the ice. The refs finally tear them apart, black and white stripes forcing Auston away from Seabrook, but Matts wrestles out of the grasp of the referee, not to punch Seabrook again, but to tap his own forehead, noticeably missing a helmet, against Mitch’s visor. 

“You good?” He asks, gently resting his fingertips on the elbow of Mitch’s jersey. Mitch is able to fit in a nod only seconds before the referee drags Auston toward the penalty box. Mitch collects his stick from the ice, taking a second to scan his body for any glaring pain, but he only registers a few spots where bruises will likely appear and a trickle of blood from a split lip. The trainer rushes to where Mitch settles on the bench while Babs shouts at the refs for a game misconduct, and Mitch lets it fade to the background and allows a smile to tug at the corner of his bleeding lip.

 

He watches the replay while he ices his ribs later that night. Auston’s ratty Coyotes hoodie covers the worst of the bruises, and Mitch chews on the extra material hanging from the sleeve as he sees the towering Seabrook take his anger out on Mitch, who really should’ve bothered to respond. The announcers express their anger at the obviously mismatched battle, and their voices rise with excitement when Auston comes and absolutely wrecks Brent Seabrook. Mitch doesn’t read the comments under the video, because he already knows they’ll be equally filled with people shaming Seabrook for targeting Mitch and people shaming Mitch for not fighting back. 

Instead, he opens Snapchat and takes a photo where the Yotes logo is front and center, his face hiding in the shadows of his black leather couch. 

“you left this garbage at my house. i’ll never heal now :(“ he captions it, and sends it to Auston. It’s a dangerous precipice to jump from, letting Auston know that Mitch not only kept the hoodie, but has selected it as his comfort-wear. It’s probably even more dangerous for possible chirping that he wore a Coyotes hoodie, but that’s a secondary concern. 

He receives a notification of a screenshot 5 minutes later, and a reply seconds after that. It’s Auston’s face, half covered with a sheet as he’s clearly lying in bed, strands of hair out of place and resting against the tops of his eyes. 

“i'm keeping that as blackmail,” the caption reads, exactly as Mitch expected, but there’s no mention of the fact that Mitch is wearing Auston’s hoodie, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

 

He wakes up the next morning, bags of ice melted on his ribs and Netflix asking if he’s still watching The Office. His phone is on a dangerous 17% where it rests abandoned on the floor, and his sore body protests the movement as he rises to a seated position. Five messages sit unread.

**Dylan Strome:** _sorry brent is a shit. not sorry we beat your ass anyway ;)_

Mitch is tempted to chirp back that Dylan was just too chicken shit to fight Mitch himself, but decides to remain civil. He’s staying at Dylan’s during their next Chicago game, and he doesn't want to wake up with a spider in his bed or some shit.

The other four texts are from Auston, a good hour after Mitch sent back a lame reply to his snapchat.

**Matts:** _I have leafs hoodies too yk_

**Matts:** _I can leave one of those next time_

**Matts:** _My hoodies look better on you anyway_

Then, a half hour later:

**Matts:** _That was so lame don’t mention these texts ever again or the yotes blackmail goes out to the team group chat_

Mitch replies without a second thought.

**Mitch:** _i'll delete the texts if you delete the photo_

**Mitch:** _but only if i can still take you up on the hoodie offer_

When he checks his phone next, water still dripping down his nose from the shower and his bruises purple against his skin, there’s just a simple red heart in reply. 

**Mitch:** _< 3 _

* * *

** 4.0 **

Mitch is pressed into Auston’s side, a beer that’s long gone warm resting safely in his hand and the excuse of too many professional athletes crushed on the couch for why his bare skin is touching Auston’s. Auston is watching in disgust as Naz is absolutely taken down by Willy in a sweeping 9-2 chel victory. 

“Where’s all your big talk now?” Mitch challenges, and Naz snorts in reply. Only one round earlier, after narrowly defeating Mitch, Naz hadn’t been able to stop crowing about how he couldn’t be stopped. 

“Willy definitely cheated,” Naz claims, motioning his controller to where Willy calmly sits, the pride of victory clear in his puffed out chest. They’re gathered at Patty’s, a rare occurrence, because Patty has actual kids who usually take over the entire house and challeng anyone who walks through the door to mini-sticks. This weekend, though, they’re visiting their grandparents, and Patty didn’t have time to make it there following the road-trip, hence the impromptu party. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Auston says. He pulls his arm from Mitch’s side to pluck the controller from Naz’s hand, and motions Willy to toss the other one to Mitch.

“C’mon, Marns, you’re also a big talker,” Auston says. He smiles at Mitch, friendly and innocent, but Mitch can see intent to destroy behind those soft eyes. Mitch often gets cited as the gamer on the Leafs, but Auston takes this shit seriously. 

“I call home team.” If Mitch is going to lose, he’s at least going to lose with dignity and the better jersey. Their match is garnering interest from the guys who had stopped watching two games in, and Mitch straightens his back and readies his hands. 

Matts is up 2-0 within a minute, much to the chagrin of Mitch. 

“Freddie, I swear I’m trading you out for Sparksy,” he grumbles. He sees Auston shake his head out of the corner of his eye. 

“Blame the player, not the goalie.” 

Mitch grits his teeth, feeling a rush of annoyance. He’s not the greatest at chel, but he’s better than Auston at video games in general, and he's going to make Auston live to regret that comment. 

“Let’s go, baby!” Mitch whoops 20 seconds later, finally getting a goal in. Even Patty is paying attention at this point. Auston squares his shoulders, and Mitch knows this match is about to get intense. 

“That was all on Freddie.”

Mitch kicks Auston’s ankle gently. “Blame the player, not the goalie.”

The ensuing battle leaves Mitch genuinely sweaty, and maybe he should stop viewing optional morning skate as optional and eat less pop-tarts, but the resulting victory is the most satisfying 5-4 victory in his history of chel. 

“Fuck a Stanley Cup, I’m a chel champion!” Mitch shouts when the final horn sounds. He throws the controller onto the couch, raising his arms over his head in triumph and standing to face Matts. His expression is unreadable, but when Mitch begins to lower his arms and flush at his own over-exuberance, Matts grabs him by the waist and flips him on the couch. 

“This is unfair,” Mitch garbles as Auston pushes his face into the pillows. He tickles his fingers against Auston’s ribs and creeps them toward his armpits when that doesn’t incite a reaction. 

“Tickling is an illegal wrestling move!” Matts shouts, but not before Mitch has taken advantage of the weakness to flip Auston on his back. Instead of continuing the battle, he flops against Auston’s stomach as a dead weight, refusing to move as Auston pushes his head. 

“This is officially the lamest wrestling match the world has ever seen,” Willy laughs from behind the couch. “Don’t try and go pro, Marns.”

“Whatever it takes to win,” Mitch shrugs. Auston has stopped fighting, apparently giving in to Mitch’s victory. Mitch glances up to gloat some more, maybe chirp Auston for being defeated by someone he labels as short and wimpy, but the words curdle in his stomach at the expression he sees in Auston’s eyes.

He looks like he’s realized something, scanning the way Mitch’s hand still lays overtop with Auston’s from the battle, at the number 34 on the pant leg of Mitch’s sweatpants, at the head Mitch has laid to rest on Auston’s chest as the rest of their teammates finish their chirps and Naz challenges a rookie to a match. Mitch jerks his hand from Auston’s, hyperaware that he’s still flushed from his battle and his heavy breath is mixed with Auston’s from the proximity of their faces. 

“S’not just talk,” Mitch mumbles, returning himself to a seated position, terrified at the look Auston may have seen in Mitch’s eyes but refusing to consider the tangible possibility of what Matts may realize. “I’m truly the best chel player in the world.”

Auston nods slowly, the red not leaving his cheeks as he brushes his hair back where it belongs. He stares straight ahead at the TV, pretending to be invested in the match at hand. “Sure, Marns.”

 

They don’t touch again that night, but Auston drives with one hand and lets the pinky of his free hand rest dangerously close to Mitch’s as he drops Mitch off that night. Mitch tries to convince himself that Auston didn’t drop his eyes to their pinkies and purposefully tap Mitch’s goodbye.

 

* * *

** +1 **

“Do you mind if I just stay at yours?” Mitch asks. He can’t stomach the idea of driving back to his place, a solid half hour from Auston’s, with this sinking feeling inside his stomach. Auston just nods, still weighed down by the loss from tonight. It wasn’t a necessary win, but it was an ugly blowout, and Mo took a hard hit and sat out the third period. It’s two games to the end of the season, and this close to playoffs, every loss means something more, and every injury means the Cup feels further from reach. Mitch pulls into a spot and turns off the car, the silence sitting stale in the air. 

Neither of them break the silence. They just grab the bags from where they rest on Mitch’s backseat. As Mitch follows Auston silently, he tries to think of how he can lighten the mood, find the right words to say, but it feels inappropriate tonight. This shares a similar vibe to the playoff loss of last year, where Mitch and Auston didn’t say a single word for two hours until Mitch broke first with a loud, cracked sob. 

Tonight, Auston speaks first. 

“I know it wasn’t that big a loss, that we’ve clinched our playoff spot, but this game was ugly.”

Auston is cross-legged next to Mitch. Both are sitting on Auston's bed, both in a Toronto #34 hoodie. Mitch rests a hand on Auston’s exposed ankle, running his finger gently over the bone that sticks out.

“We’re going to be fine. It was one game,” Mitch says. There’s a wave of nausea and nerves in his stomach that disagrees, but he doesn’t want to feed the same one that he's sure is living inside of Matts. 

“One game that means Mo might be gone for the start of playoffs, and one game where we lose against the fucking Panthers and somehow expect to win a Stanley Cup.” Auston pushes Mitch’s hand away from his ankle and swings his legs over the side of the bed, resting his head on his knees. Mitch is frozen, unsure whether to reach an arm out or to stay on this side of the bed, safe from the anger buzzing off Auston. 

“It’s going to suck if we lose Mo, but we might not, and — ”

“Oh, fuck off with the relentless positivity,” Auston groans. He turns around to face Mitch. “You’re here because you’re upset, too.”

“Being pessimists won’t help,” Mitch challenges. He doesn’t know why he does it, knows Auston is right, knows Auston knows he’s right, but he just wants to be mad, and Auston is willing to be his punching bag. Auston scoots closer to Mitch again, shoves at Mitch's shoulder enough that Mitch knows he’s pissed, but gentle enough to keep Mitch safe.

“Being optimists doesn’t change the score.”

“Wow, what an outlook for a future captain,” Mitch scoffs. It’s a low blow. They all know the C will decorate Auston’s chest one day, but Auston adamantly refuses to discuss it, and Mitch knows it’s an issue that stresses him out a lot. Auston clenches his sheets in his fist and turns his eyes away from Mitch, who feels regret boiling in his chest. 

“Matts, sorry,” he says softly, reaching a hand out to cover the bigger one that’s still wrinkling the duvet. Auston shakes his head but doesn’t move, which Mitch counts as a win. 

“"Seriously, that was a shitty thing to say. You’re right,” Mitch continues. “This game fucking sucked. We played like crap, and playoffs just got fifteen times harder if Mo is out.” Auston is paying attention now, and Mitch offers an arm in amnesty that Auston tucks himself under. They shuffle back against the headboard, and Auston’s breath tickles Mitch’s neck as he rests it there.

“I don’t think I can take another first round exit.”

“I think we would actually kill Steve Dangle if we had another first round exit,” Mitch laughs. He rubs his hand against the sleeve of Auston’s sweatshirt as Auston pulls on the strings of Mitch’s _(Auston’s)_ hoodie. 

“Can we not talk about Steve Dangle right now?” Auston’s nose is crinkled in annoyance. The question feels important, though, like he’s trying to say more. Mitch leans his head on top of Auston’s, the stands of hair tickling his nose. 

“What do you want to talk about then?”

Auston doesn’t reply, simply reaches his hand up to interlace his fingers with Mitch's hand that is lying over his shoulders. The room is quiet in a different way than the heavy silence of earlier, silent with possibility and words neither of them are daring enough to say.

It feels like they’ve both said enough, though, when Mitch drops a kiss to the top of Auston’s head, unable to properly exhale afterwards as he waits for Auston to push him away, to press the keys in the palm of his hand and never welcome him back. 

Instead, Auston turns his face deeper into the crook of Mitch’s shoulder, and Mitch can feel the a smile twitch at his lips. 

“Love you, Matts,” and it feels less daring now. 

The words are suffocated in the material of the hoodie, but the tightened grasp of Auston’s fingers where they touch Mitch’s feel like an answer. 

There’s a lot of words unsaid between them, problems to hash out and labels to assign and futures to consider, but Mitch closes his eyes and lets the warmth of Auston on his chest take precedence for the now.

* * *

 

** Bonus (+2) **

"I can't believe you brought us back to this place," Mitch snorts. Auston removes his hand from Mitch's knee long enough to slap at his chest.

"They had genuinely good cheese fries," Auston says, gesturing to where Kappy is now fighting Willy about the merits of cheese fries versus poutine. The walls of this bar look even more run-down than their last visit, but Auston is tucked firmly against Mitch's side, and even if their teammates don't understand why Matts doesn't hook up anymore, or why Mitch and Auston take any excuse to playfully wrestle each other down at practice, the gold 34 necklace lying under his Arizona Coyotes hoodie keeps Mitch sane. 

"I can't believe you're wearing that garbage hoodie out in public," Hymie sighs, motioning at the ratty, oversized hoodie. His eyebrows are furrowed in disgust at the logo, especially at Mitch's choice to wear it to a bar. Mitch instantly retaliates.

"I lost the chel match, and Matts got to pick my punishment," he protests. "I would never choose this." 

Auston snickers next to him, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "I never deleted that blackmail photo. Trash the Yotes again and I will send it, I swear to god."

"I'm breaking up with you," Mitch hisses back, but clears his throat and announces to the table, "I love the Arizona Coyotes with all my heart and soul."

The cheese fry that Kappy throws sticks to Mitch's cheek, and Mitch wrestles Auston because Kappy is too far away to fight.

A picture of Mitch in a seedy bar wearing an Arizona Coyotes hoodie with Auston's hand in his hair ends up in a TSN article anyway, so honestly, fuck Auston Matthews. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never played video games or any version of chel in my entire life, so that scene was a hot ass mess, much like the rest of this fanfic.  
> I'm scared of dialogue, so I just overuse long paragraphs of Mitch thinking to himself. It's whatever. Who needs character development or setting when you could just do not that.  
> If you made it all the way through this, you're a fucking champ.


End file.
